Ruth Langan Highlanders Bundle

by Ruth Langan

  That comment brought even more laughter.

  Leonora reacted as though she’d been slapped. Righteous anger colored her cheeks. She thought about all the horrible stories she’d been told by the serving girls at Kinloch House. Each one had been more shocking than the last. And each time, she had experienced a sense of outrage and revulsion at the men who had inflicted such pain. She could see these men, men who called themselves friends of her father, staring at her and laughing. She felt as if she’d been violated.

  “That is not all, my lady,” James said between bouts of laughter. “Within a fortnight, I returned with an army of men, and we killed the entire clan while they played in a Highland meadow. I saw to it that there were none left to seek vengeance upon me and mine.”

  “God in heaven.” She pressed a hand to her mouth when she realized what James had just revealed. He was the one who had destroyed Dillon’s clan. And left his mark upon the lad’s face, and upon his soul, for a lifetime.

  With a look of indignation, she removed a warm blanket from the empty cradle, then strode across the room and paused beside the Duke of Essex, picking up the remains of the meal he had been enjoying.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  “I am taking a warm covering and the rest of this food to the peasants. I would prefer to share their quarters with the pigs, rather than remain here with such animals.”

  She managed to pull open the door before Alger, swearing loudly, closed a hand over her wrist.

  “Nay, Alger,” Essex said, beginning to laugh once more. “Do not stop her. I think you should accompany the lady to the pig shelter. Let us see if she is truly ready to…join the peasants.”

  Alger glanced from his father to Essex. Both men were smiling broadly. The others were laughing at their shared joke.

  He shrugged and took up a torch from a niche in the wall. “Come, my lady. I will take you to the peasants.”

  The downpour made it impossible to track the horsemen. Hoofprints were instantly washed away. Grass that had been trampled now floated in puddles. Bits of fabric that might have snagged on branches were impossible to see in the darkness. The only thing for which Dillon was grateful was the fact that the pounding of his horse’s hooves could not be heard above the steady beat of rain and the rumble of thunder.

  He drove his mount mercilessly. Though he knew not which trail Essex had taken, he knew one thing: the English were eager to leave the Highlands behind. But whether Leonora was alive or dead, was still a mystery to him. It was no mystery that the lady would be dead by the time the English soldiers reached her father’s castle. And their lie, which had almost cost Rupert his life, would be believed without question. They were, after all, highborn Englishmen. He, on the other hand, was known to all English as a Highland savage. All of England would be ready to ride against him, once Leonora’s death was discovered.

  The fragile peace between their countries would be forever shattered. But though that should have been the noble reason that drove him, it was not. In his heart, there was only one compelling fact that drove him. Leonora. His beautiful, beloved Leonora was in grave peril. If she came to any harm, his own life would be meaningless.

  Pulling his cloak around him to ward off the rain, Dillon urged his mount into a run.

  Leonora lifted her hood and stepped outside. Despite the rain, the fragrance of heather was strong as they crossed the field toward the crude animal shelter.

  “A word of warning, my lady.” Alger walked by her side, holding the torch aloft to light their way. “You would be wise to tread carefully, lest you anger the Duke of Essex.”

  “I care not for Essex. He is not worthy of his title.”

  “Perhaps. But he wields great power, my lady. And you are not yet in your father’s safe embrace.”

  She paused in midstride and faced him. “Are you trying to frighten me, Alger?”

  He shrugged, and the smile that played on his lips gave her a strange, uneasy feeling. “I merely suggest, my lady, that in the company of such powerful men as the duke and my father, you are in need of a friend.”

  “And you would be that friend?”

  He took her free hand in his and brought the torch close so that he could see her eyes. His voice was low, seductive. “If you would let me, I would be more than friend.”

  She jerked her hand from his grasp and turned away, lifting her skirts in the wet grass as she strode quickly toward the crude shelter.

  From behind her came Alger’s voice, tinged with anger and something else. Something she couldn’t quite identify. There was a smug, self-satisfied ring to his words, as though privy to a secret she had not yet learned. “Remember that I offered you friendship, my lady. For in the next few moments, you shall be in need of a friend.”

  She pushed open the door and was assaulted by the usual barnyard smells. Dung. Earth. The fetid stench of so many creatures crowded into such a small space.

  As pigs and chickens and lambs scrambled about, she peered into the darkness in search of the family that had fled the English invaders.

  “Good people, I bring you food and warmth,” she called out in greeting.

  Her words were met with silence. Except for the bleating of a lamb, and muted animal sounds, there was no response.

  She walked farther into the shelter, groping her way until she reached the far wall. In the darkness she nearly tripped over something. Pausing to reach down, she encountered the coarse texture of a peasant shirt.

  “Good sir,” she said softly, “forgive me for waking you, but I have brought food, and a blanket for your child.”

  An almost overpowering stench arose, the likes of which she had never before experienced. At almost the same moment, she lifted her hand from the shirt and shrank back. Her fingers, she realized, were covered with something thick and warm and sticky.

  “Have you found your peasants?” Alger asked, stepping through the doorway.

  In that instant, he lifted the torch, illuminating the interior. The walls, the earthen floor, even the roof, were spattered with blood. It stained the coats of the pigs. The wool of the sheep ran red with it. The chicken feathers were smeared with it. And on the floor, trampled beneath the feet of the animals, lay the broken, twisted bodies of a peasant family. A man, a woman and two young girls, one of them an infant.

  Leonora heard the high, piercing sounds of a woman’s screams, though she did not recognize the voice of hysteria as her own. Sobbing, choking, she clawed her way out of the shelter and ran halfway across the meadow before she collapsed beneath a tree, retching.

  She seemed unaware of the man who knelt beside her, or of the light of the torch as he lifted it to study her. The hem of her cloak was crusted with animal waste and blood. The hood had slipped from her head, leaving her hair to fall in soaked tendrils around her face. Her eyes, red and swollen, seemed too bright in a face that had been drained of all color.

  “Now,” he said, taking her cold, lifeless hand in his, “do you still wish to join the peasants, my lady?”

  She could barely speak. “They did that to them. Essex and your father and the others. They murdered those innocent peasants.”

  She expected him to share her outrage. Instead, he said simply, “Aye. As they have before. As they surely will again, until we leave this filthy, heathen land behind.”

  “You know what they do, and you do not condemn them?”

  “Condemn them? I am a mere soldier, my lady, following the orders of my leader. What we do, we do for England.”

  She shrank back from him. “Nay. It is my land, as well, and you do not do it for me. You do it because it pleases you. It gives you a sense of power to hurt these helpless people.”

  His tone hardened. “We do it because they deserve it. They are our enemy. Now, come, my lady. It is time we returned to the cottage.”

  “Nay. I cannot bear the thought of being with such monsters.”

  “But you have no choice,” he said as patiently as if he were
lecturing a child. “You are in our protective care, my lady. Your fate is in our hands.”

  Fate. She now knew her fate. These men had no intention of returning her to her father. At least not alive. For if they did, she would speak of their evil deeds. Now that she had been a witness to their barbarism, she would have to die. She recalled the soldiers she had encountered in the forest. Though these men called themselves noblemen, they were no better.

  She had never felt so alone. This time, she had neither Dillon Campbell nor her father to protect her.

  “Have no fear, my lady. Remember, I will be your friend.” He helped her to her feet and brushed a strand of damp hair from her cheek, allowing his hand to linger in her hair. With an arm around her shoulders, he began to lead her back to the cottage. “As long as you do not anger me, as long as you…please me, I will place myself between you and the others.”

  Numbly, she moved along at his side. Her tears had already dried. The tremors that had first rocked her were subsiding. But the sight that had greeted her in the barn had been seared into her memory. She would not forget. Nor would she forgive the men who had done this. Though she knew not how, she would find a way to make them pay.

  A strange sort of calm descended upon her. She glanced heavenward and realized that the worst of the storm had passed, leaving a steady, drenching downpour. Far to the east, the first faint ribbons of dawn already streaked the sky. A new day was beginning, and with it, a chance to escape these monsters who insulted all Englishmen by passing themselves off as English noblemen.

  So long as she had a breath left in her, she vowed, she would escape from these men. And then fight to denounce them.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The rain continued, though not as heavy, throughout the next day. The party of English soldiers, who had been in the saddle since dawn, grumbled among themselves about the harsh terrain, the scarcity of food, the lack of women.

  Leonora rode in their midst, her hands bound, her reins held by Alger Blakely, to prevent her from attempting to escape. Since witnessing the fate of the peasants, Essex saw no reason to continue the pretense that they would return her to her father.

  Each time their party passed a crofter’s cottage, each time they entered a farmer’s land, Leonora held her breath, praying they would not stop and wreak more havoc on these innocent people. And yet, each time she passed another family working in the fields, she had to resist the temptation to cry out for help.

  What could these simple people do for her? she reasoned. Would a scythe or pitchfork equal a razor-sharp knife or a sword? Could a farmer, no matter how muscular, be the equal of these soldiers whose strength had been honed by years of battle? And why, she asked herself, would simple Scots peasants come to the defense of an Englishwoman in the company of English soldiers?

  She could not involve these good people in her fate. And so, as she passed each one, she met their gazes solemnly, showing no sign of her inner turmoil. But as day faded into evening, the terror grew within her. They were approaching the English border. The time for confrontation was drawing near. Alger had left no doubt that, were she to give in to his lustful demands, he could see that her life was spared. She wanted to believe that he would help her, but despite his boastful claims, it was obvious that Essex was the true leader of this band of murderers. And in the duke’s mind, she had been marked for death from the beginning.

  She thought of Father Anselm’s last words to her. Had he sensed the danger she would face? Closing her eyes, she whispered a prayer for safety. “And if,” she added, “I cannot be kept safe, at least let me face death with courage.”

  “I spy a cottage,” Essex muttered to James Blakely, and pointed to a small building and several outbuildings across a meadow. “We will take shelter until we are rested.”

  Peering through the mist, Leonora’s heart nearly stopped. Though the last time she had seen this place she had been nearly consumed with exhaustion, she was certain she was not mistaken. The cottage was the same one in which she and Dillon had sought shelter on their way to the Highlands.

  Oh, sweet heaven, she thought with growing panic as the scene of carnage in the barn flashed through her mind. It was the cottage of Brodie of Morayshire. And his shy, sweet wife, Anthea, and little sons and infant daughter.

  “You are certain, man, that they did not pass this way?”

  The old man, his face the texture of aged leather, his hair as white as the delicate Alpine flowers that grew atop the Highland mountains, nodded vigorously. “There is naught that passes this way that I dinna’ see, m’laird. I would know if English soldiers and an English lady crossed o’er my land.”

  Dillon wheeled his mount, whipping the animal into a run. He had just wasted precious time following a false trail. Though he was a man who had rarely known fear, there was a knot of it threatening to choke him.

  “Where is your man?” Essex and James burst through the door of the cottage, followed by the soldiers.

  The young wife looked up just as Alger Blakely, hauling Leonora roughly by the arm, entered. As Anthea’s eyes widened in recognition, Leonora gave a quick shake of her head and prayed that the young woman would understand her signal.

  The sight of so many drawn weapons caused Anthea to lift her squalling infant from the cradle. The two frightened little boys hid behind their mother’s skirts.

  “He is…” She swallowed and tried again. “My husband is in the forest hunting.”

  Essex pointed the tip of his sword at her. “Whoever would like the privilege of killing the woman may first use her as he pleases.”

  Before any of the men could volunteer, Leonora pulled free of Alger’s grasp and moved to stand beside her. “Nay,” she cried, clasping the palm of the frightened young woman between her bound hands. “Can you not see that she has recently given birth?”

  “What is that to us?” one of the soldiers said with a sneer. “She is still a warm body.”

  Leonora’s mind raced. “Which would you rather satisfy first? Your hunger for the flesh, or your hunger for food?”

  “The lady has a point,” Essex said as he warmed himself by the fire. The cottage was redolent of the fragrance of biscuits baking and a kettle of stew simmering over the fire. Leonora’s generous gift of jewelry had obviously supplied them with the finest of flour from the mill and more than enough food to feed their hungry family. “We can always take our pleasures later, on a full stomach. You will feed us, woman. But first, I would savor a sip of spirits.”

  The young woman produced a wooden cask of finest Scottish whiskey. The men gathered around and began to drink. As they did, Leonora lifted her bound hands.

  “If you would free me, I could help this woman prepare your food.”

  “Aye. And be quick about it.” Essex pulled a knife from his waist and cut away her bindings.

  When he returned his attention to the spirits, Leonora beckoned Anthea to the other side of the small cottage, where they began to prepare a meal. While they worked, they spoke in whispers.

  “You must pretend we have never met.”

  Anthea nodded and glanced down at the boys tugging on her skirts. “I have heard the rumors about these English. They will kill us all.”

  “Aye. And I will fare no better. How soon will your husband return?”

  “Perhaps not until the morrow, depending upon his good fortune.”

  Leonora felt her heart tumble. By then, they would all surely be dead. “We must devise a plan.”

  The young woman’s fear was evident on her troubled face. “I would gladly die if they would but spare the wee ones.”

  “These men are monsters who will leave no living thing in their wake. We must find a way to strike the first blow.” Leonora’s eyes narrowed in thought, then suddenly widened. “You are a healer, Anthea. You know herbs and plants. There may be a way, but if it should fail, our punishment will be horrible indeed.”

  “Tell me, my lady.” Anthea clutched her sleeve. “So long as
there is a thread of hope, I will do anything.”

  Leonora shivered at the enormity of her plan, then whispered her instructions. The young woman nodded in silence, drew the infant close to her breast and knelt down to hug her young sons. If she failed, they would pay with their lives.

  Leonora moved among the soldiers, filling their tankards each time they were emptied. After such a tedious journey, they were only too happy to sprawl around a cozy fire and enjoy the warmth of ale snaking through their veins. Even the Duke of Essex and Lord James Blakely seemed ready to relax their guard now that they had made it to the border.

  “On the morrow, we shall be on English soil,” James said, lifting his tankard.

  “Aye, home,” Essex muttered. “And none too soon. Even these scrawny Scots women are beginning to look tempting.” He cast a glance at Anthea, who quickly ducked her head and continued preparing their meal.

  “More ale, your grace?” Leonora had cast aside her coarse traveling cloak to reveal the regal velvet gown. Her long hair, spilling over one shoulder, gleamed blue-black in the firelight.

  “Aye.” He held out the empty tankard.

  As she bent to refill it, he gazed longingly at her high, firm breasts, exposed beneath the low rounded neckline.

  “But no one,” he announced to the others, “can compare to the beauty of our lovely English ladies.”

  “Aye.” James, seeing the lustful gleam in the duke’s eyes, said sadly, “I had hoped for a match between the lady and my son Alger. With her wealth and beauty and his ambition, they could have left a legacy for my progeny.”

  “Alas,” Essex said with a laugh, “poor Alger will have to look elsewhere for a bride.”

  “The king’s cousin has an impressive dowry,” Leonora said, pausing to fill James’s tankard.